


with the headlights on (just wanted you to see)

by KelseyO



Category: Atypical (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, but there's no tag for that, elsa is the ultimate wingmom, handholds and other unbelievably intimate things, listen. as with most things I write. it's sad until it's not sad anymore, they make out a little i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29894562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelseyO/pseuds/KelseyO
Summary: “Everything you said the other day is true. And to be honest, I know I don’t deserve another chance.”Casey makes a mental note to Google how much pressure it would take to strain your jaw muscle. “Then why are you here?”Izzie’s eyes are glassy now and she wipes away a tear before it can fall below her cheek bone. “You know why.”(Casey doesn't accept Izzie's hallway apology in 3x10, and it takes an Elsa intervention, a reluctant ride home, and an Angus & Julia Stone song to get them talking again.)
Relationships: Casey Gardner/Izzie
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	with the headlights on (just wanted you to see)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crammit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crammit/gifts).



> My dear friend Alex has been going through a lot of impossible things lately, so I asked her for a Cazzie fic prompt that I could write for her and she gave me a beautifully specific idea and I wrote 1,700 words in three hours.
> 
> Title from "Chateau" by Angus & Julia Stone.

There’s probably a dramatic irony in how many thoughts are popcorning around in Casey’s head when she rejects Izzie’s offer to talk, but every time she sees that stupid beautiful face she sees it kissing that stupid dumb boy and her thought-popcorn turns into thought-lava, and she really can’t afford to erupt in the middle of the hallway.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Izzie insists.

Casey thinks about bees being more afraid of you than you are of them, and how if you ignore them long enough, they’ll go away on their own. “I’m sick of you apologizing,” she mutters without making any eye contact, but Izzie follows her to her locker anyways. “You led me on, you’re jerking me around… I hate it.” She slams her water bottle down, closes the locker loudly, and gives Izzie a look she normally reserves for Elsa’s worst moments.

Izzie’s stupid beautiful eyes are bigger and browner than ever as they look pleadingly at Casey. “I _really_ like you.”

“Yeah, in this moment,” Casey retorts, “but in ten minutes you might be embarrassed by me or kissing some random guy.” She feels the lava coming on and concludes that now is the time to abort. “Just leave me alone.”

Casey storms off toward her next class and Izzie has the audacity to call out to her, but if there’s anything she’s learned from running, it’s that you never, ever, ever look back.

.

The size of Casey’s bed has never bothered her before. She can spread out her homework, she can cuddle with Charice, and she can sleep in starfish formation during the summer, but the inherent multi-person capacity has felt very… loud, lately, if that’s even possible.

She hates how often she visualizes Izzie sprawled next to her in some ridiculous position, and hates that she misses Izzie’s smile and laugh and perfume a lot more than she misses Evan’s messy hair and even messier jokes and truly vile cologne, and she also hates that Elsa seems a lot more concerned about Izzie’s absence than about Casey’s breakup with Evan.

But whatever. Bed to herself means she can see every single page of her calculus homework at the same time, and it’s not making her any less miserable, but at least it can’t kiss strangers at parties.

“Case, can you come give me a hand with this casserole?”

“Not a good time, Elsa,” she yells back.

One, two, three, four seconds pass.

“Please? It’ll only take a second.”

Casey erases the second half of an equation that she definitely didn’t do right. “Just order pizza.”

“I’ll give you ten dollars.”

Papers set aside, pencil dropped. “Now you’re speaking my language,” Casey confirms as she comes down the stairs, but stops halfway when she sees Elsa sitting on the couch reading a magazine. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Hi.”

The voice is like an icicle poking right between her shoulder blades; she forces herself to glance to her left, where Izzie is standing just inside the front door, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she anticipates Casey’s reaction.

Casey glares daggers at Elsa. “I gave you _very_ specific instructions.”

Elsa isn’t phased at all. “She just wants to talk, Casey.”

“Yeah, I’m _aware_ ,” she snaps. “And I still want that ten bucks. Actually, make it twenty, for emotional damages.” Casey turns on her heel—

“I fucked up.”

No icicle this time; just a bucket of freezing cold water dumped over her head. Izzie’s voice sounds so sad and tired and matches up kind of perfectly with how sad and tired Casey’s insides feel and she hates it, she hates all of it, hates it so, so much.

But she stops—doesn’t turn back, just _sideways_ —and allows Izzie eye contact.

“You’re right,” Izzie continues, and she’s putting visible effort into holding Casey’s gaze. “Everything you said the other day is true. And to be honest, I know I don’t deserve another chance.”

Casey makes a mental note to Google how much pressure it would take to strain your jaw muscle. “Then why are you here?”

Izzie’s eyes are glassy now and she wipes away a tear before it can fall below her cheek bone. “You know why.”

(Popcorn, lava, doomsday-level hurricane, et cetera.)

Casey grabs the car keys from their hook. “I’m gonna drive Izzie home, keep going till I hit the coast, then spend the rest of my life at sea.”

Elsa doesn’t look up from her magazine. “Wear lots of sunscreen.”

“Gonna roast myself like a lobster, just to spite you.”

“Whatever makes you happy, sweetheart.”

Casey reaches past Izzie to open the door and gestures for her to walk out first.

Izzie hesitates. “You’re not just gonna lock the door behind me, are you?”

“Only one way to find out.”

.

The plan is to force Izzie to suffer in silence, but like most of Casey’s plans these days, this one backfires spectacularly and leaves her just as uncomfortable as her intended target.

She all but stabs the AUX button, expecting her favorite indie rock band to start blasting through the speakers, but instead a soft guitar melody starts playing. “The hell is this?”

Izzie glances down at her own lap. “I, um. I think my phone is still connected. Do you want me to—?”

“No, I don’t,” Casey interrupts. “Just—it’s fine. Whatever.”

“Okay,” Izzie says quietly.

A few blocks later a steady drum beat kicks in and Casey catches herself tapping her thumb against the steering wheel. She squeezes the leather in a white-knuckle grip to put an end to the motion, but then she gets to a stop sign and the stillness becomes suffocating. “It’s not fine.”

“I know.”

“In fact, it sucks. Like, _royally_ sucks.”

“I know.”

“If you know, then why the _fuck_ did you freak out at me for having a completely normal conversation with my own brother, and then freak out at me for dancing with you in a completely normal way, and then kiss some random dude right in front of me?” Casey’s lungs are heaving and she pauses to catch her breath. “You were really shitty to me when we met, but that was just cliché bullying crap. And after everything we…” Casey huffs and adjusts the rearview mirror. “You knew how much all of that would hurt me, and you did it anyways.”

Casey chooses this moment to turn up the volume—she needs something to fill this unbearable space between them, around them—but half a verse later Izzie turns it back down.

“I think…” she begins, her voice audibly shaking. “And it’s not an excuse, I’m just… I think with how my family is, I get stuck in survival mode sometimes. All that matters is that I feel safe, and I can’t afford to worry about how anyone else feels.”

“How nice for you,” Casey mutters.

She can see Izzie’s knee bouncing in her peripheral vision. “Usually it just means I take care of myself and my siblings and let my mom figure things out on her own, but…” Izzie sniffs, tips her head back against the headrest, lets out an exhausted sigh. “Casey, I never wanted to hurt you. A-and I know that probably doesn’t mean _shit_ to you at this point, but I—I just needed you to hear that.”

They’re on Izzie’s street now and Casey can feel herself slowing down, but it’s only because half the lights are out and she doesn’t want to, like, hit a cat or something. “Well, I heard you,” she deadpans. “That didn’t fix anything. Also, this song is average at best.”

“I listen to it when I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Casey swallows hard as she pulls over in front of Izzie’s building and shifts into park, but doesn’t unlock the doors or turn off the music, and Izzie just stares out the passenger window. “My breathing song is a lot slower.”

Izzie turns to Casey and uses her sleeves to wipe the moisture from her cheeks. “You have one, too?”

“Okay, if you’re the heartbreaker and _you_ have one, do you really think that I, the heartbroken, am just fine and dandy with zero musical assistance?”

She worries her bottom lip. “I broke your heart?” she asks, and her voice cracks on the last word.

Casey shrugs. “Just ‘cause I act like a flippant tomboy doesn’t mean I don’t have all gooey filling on the inside.”

Izzie sighs again. “Why do the protective instincts only kick in after you’ve caused the pain.”

“Oh, _now_ you feel protective of me?” Casey snarks.

“I feel like, even if you never wanna speak to me again,” Izzie replies, sounding tired but calm, “I’ll still spend the rest of our time at Clayton making sure no one ever hurts you the way I did.”

Casey thinks about sorry's and forehead promises and how if you don’t look back at the teammate who’s trying to hand you the baton, you’ll drop it every single time. “ _That_ sounds a little stalker-ish,” she muses, but even with the lighter tone, Izzie doesn’t look at her.

(Slurpees and missed calls and knowing, somehow, that she’d meet her halfway.)

She lets go of the steering wheel and rests her hand at her hip, moves it one inch, then another, then again, and finally brushes the tippiest-tip of her thumb against the middle knuckle of Izzie’s pinkie. Casey hears Izzie’s breath catch in her throat, but Izzie otherwise stays still except for her hand shifting closer to Casey’s; she considers watching all of this unfold at the same snail’s pace as last time, but as she considers the idea of having meaningful interactions with literally anyone else at their stupid elitist school—

“Izzie.”

She glances at Casey with a start, like she wasn’t expecting to her that voice say her name ever again, and Casey cups the back of Izzie’s neck and pulls her in and first it’s the salty taste of her tears but then it’s just _Izzie_ and she _feels_ Izzie’s massive inhale and _feels_ Izzie melt into her just like she feels for the volume knob on the dashboard and turns it up again.

“It’s above average,” Casey concludes against Izzie’s lips, which somehow end up next to Casey’s ear.

“It’s unnecessary,” Izzie whispers, then reaches over and turns it all the way down.

Casey pulls back questioningly. “But that’s your breathing song.”

“You’re my breathing song.”

Izzie’s lips are on hers again, and Casey thinks Izzie might be her breathing song, too.


End file.
